


Blissfully Ordinary: In Which Restoration Isn't Just for Paintings

by LizzieHarker



Series: Blissfully Ordinary, Boringly Domestic [4]
Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Arrowsverse, Artist Steve Rogers, Bucky Barnes/Steve Rogers Feels, Domestic Fluff, Fluff, M/M, Memories, Museums, POV Bucky Barnes, Photography, Slice of Life, Steve Rogers Recovering, Steve in therapy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-12
Updated: 2018-03-12
Packaged: 2019-03-30 12:04:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,047
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13951185
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LizzieHarker/pseuds/LizzieHarker
Summary: He watched the tension drain from Steve’s body, a slow restoration of spirits as Steve moved from piece to piece, sometimes skipping paintings or entire rooms, sometimes lingering at one in particular, circling back to it. He hadn’t told Bucky what they’d discussed in his session, but from the way Steve devoured every color and shift of light, he thought it must have been about Steve himself, who he was and what he wanted from this new life. Stevie still had bad days, but Bucky watched him come back into his own, knowing from experience that it wasn’t easy, and his heart swelled every time a smile curved Steve’s lips, every time he laughed, every time he leaned into Bucky for the sake of touching him, of being close.Part of him wishes he could have spared Steve from his breakdown, but the other part is silently grateful for it, that he was there to catch him. Ever since Bucky’d come off the ice, Steve’s world revolved around him, on getting him better. Buck would never take that selflessness for granted, but now it was his turn to repay that kindness, to care for Steve the way Steve had cared for him.





	Blissfully Ordinary: In Which Restoration Isn't Just for Paintings

Bucky trailed behind Steve, trying not to look down. They’d taken the elevator to the top floor, like they always did, but even therapy and breathing exercises didn’t stop the vertigo whenever he caught sight of the glass partitions lining the walkways, the drop to the lower levels crystal clear. He stayed to the middle of the path, eyes trained on his boyfriend. He’d endure it because walking through the Metropolitan Museum of Modern Art made Steve happy, and Steve deserved all the happiness he could get. 

He watched the tension drain from Steve’s body, a slow restoration of spirits as Steve moved from piece to piece, sometimes skipping paintings or entire rooms, sometimes lingering at one in particular, circling back to it. He hadn’t told Bucky what they’d discussed in his session, but from the way Steve devoured every color and shift of light, he thought it must have been about Steve himself, who he was and what he wanted from this new life. Stevie still had bad days, but Bucky watched him come back into his own, knowing from experience that it wasn’t easy, and his heart swelled every time a smile curved Steve’s lips, every time he laughed, every time he leaned into Bucky for the sake of touching him, of being close. 

Part of him wishes he could have spared Steve from his breakdown, but the other part is silently grateful for it, that he was there to catch him. Ever since Bucky’d come off the ice, Steve’s world revolved around him, on getting him better. Buck would never take that selflessness for granted, but now it was his turn to repay that kindness, to care for Steve the way Steve had cared for him. 

Bucky couldn’t help but think of the first time he’d met Steve, bruised and bloodied, fists up to fight back against the world bent on knocking him down. He’d offered Steve his hand and from the glare he got, felt pretty sure the guy would take a swing at him next, but instead Steve let Bucky help him to his feet. Maybe Steve held on a second too long, a weird uncertainty flickering behind the anger, but that was that. Bucky slung an arm around Steve’s shoulders and marched him home, patched him up, and they’d been inseparable since. 

There hadn’t been a moment in their lives Steve backed down: he insisted on finishing the fights he started, struggled through illness and pain even when the Fathers delivered Last Rites on three separate occasions and scared Bucky to death in their wake, insisted he work and pay rent even when he couldn’t get out of bed, and well, everyone in the world knew what happened when the war came.

He hadn’t noticed at first, too caught up in pretending to be okay, that Steve started slipping. His Steve, always confident and determined, began to doubt, his once unshakable resolve crumbling. Bucky hadn’t lived long enough the first time to help him, but now he could. Bucky had gotten better, and this time it was Steve’s turn.

Bucky drifted along, devoting his attention to the way Steve looked at art. It’d been months after they’d met before Steve shared his talent for drawing with him. If Buck had been smarter back then, he’d have realized his heart was a lost cause the moment Steve lit up talking about drawing. 

And the way Steve blushed when he shyly showed Bucky the portrait of him he’d done, one of the first, long before they’d both realized they loved each other. Steve hadn’t had the courage to say (and fuck, neither had Bucky). So it was _after_ , one night when they’d built a blanket fort and lay on the cushions tucked against one another, closer than two boys their age should be allowed, that Steve brought out the sketchbook, fingers shaking from nerves or from adrenaline thanks to all that kissing.

“I knew from the start,” Steve had said, as Bucky stared at himself, that cocky grin twisting his lips and a spark in his eye. Steve had created a likeness that was somehow more than just a portrait, and Bucky’s heart ached for it. “The moment I met you, I knew you’d change my life.”

Bucky had shaken his head. “This guy ain’t me, Stevie. He’s more . . .” But Bucky hadn’t found the words. 

Steve shrugged. “That’s how you look to me. Like you’re equally likely to charm someone or cause trouble. Probably both. At the same time.”

A smile curled Bucky’s lips as he stepped into the next room. He hadn’t been paying attention where they were headed. Honestly, as long as he had Steve there, it didn’t really matter where he ended up, but as he crossed the floor, he noticed Steve had paused in front of a massive photograph. The black and white image showed a woman in front of a building, her black scarf fluttering behind her, her determined gaze focused up and behind. For a split second, Steve and the portrait mirrored one another, and Bucky saw _his_ Steve for the first time in months.

His vision wavered as he closed the distance between them and wrapped his arms around Steve’s chest. 

Steve reached up, carding his fingers through Bucky’s hair. “Hey there.”

“Hi,” Bucky answered, squeezing a bit tighter. 

“You’ve been quiet. See something you like?”

He chuckled. “Yeah. I think I really like photography.”

"Cindy Sherman's work is pretty neat. You know these are all self-portraits?"

"Really?" Bucky asked.

"Yeah, from her Untitled Film Still series. Each portrait is a story but it's up to the viewer to decide what the image reveals." Steve turned, pressing a kiss to Bucky's hair. "What do you see in this one?"

Bucky pulled Steve against him, looking up at the image. "Fearlessness. Determination."

"She'll defeat anything standing in her way to get where she wants to be," Steve added. "A lady who knows her value."

"But she's not angry. Her strength lies in hope. For the future she's running toward."

Steve relaxed against him, pressing another kiss to his cheek. "The life she deserves."

They spend the rest of day looking at Sherman's work, telling each other stories, until the museum closes and the employees shoo them out.

**Author's Note:**

> [This is the Cindy Sherman piece.](https://www.autoritratti.org/cindy-sherman-5/) I love her work.
> 
> \------
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>  
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> Follow me [on Tumblr!](http://lizzieharker.tumblr.com/)


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